


The You I Remember

by Mooninmie



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Arthur gets to be a dad, Chapter 3: Clemens Point (Red Dead Redemption 2), Clemens Point, Colm O'driscoll just kind of exists, Fix-It, Gen, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Indirect POV Arthur Morgan, Indirect POV Isaac Morgan, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Only slight depictions of violence, Slight spoilers, also drinking, and Isaac got his dad's temper, and mom death, and threats, anything after the ending is up for debate, but yeah it's there so, kind of, pretty brief i mean it's barely there at all really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23729392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mooninmie/pseuds/Mooninmie
Summary: Isaac meets his father through unfortunate circumstances.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Isaac Morgan, Arthur Morgan & Van der Linde Gang, Isaac Morgan & Original Male Character, Jack Marston & Isaac Morgan, Sadie Adler & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 17
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

Isaac could just barely make out the distant conversation. His hands were tied tightly behind his back and his legs were bound together, as well. He was slumped over the back of somebody’s horse, its tail flicking in annoyance. He rose his head, squinting against the glaring sun, forcing himself to focus on the figures through his dark brown hair. 

He huffed, flicking his tongue across his lips. “Hey!” he called, his voice catching in the air, and the distant voices stopped what they were saying. He felt like he was underwater, a thick clot in his throat and a loud ringing in his ears. “Where am I?!”

Isaac saw the two glance at one another, before he was hit strongly upside the head, and his world went dark once again.

\--

The next time he woke up, he was slumped down against a tree, a burning sensation on his wrists and a metallic taste in his mouth. He scrunched his face up in disgust and leaned to the side, spitting and hacking up the blood that sat deep in his throat. A beating, he figured. He licked his lips again, frowning as he traced a large split, swollen, on his bottom lip. Suddenly he felt it flare up, burning and stinging, and he groaned in irritation. 

He blinked and forced himself to look around, as heavy as his head felt. He was across from a river, flowing gently. A chorus of birds twittered cheerfully in the trees above. He couldn’t have felt more differently from an environment than he did at that moment.

He dug his feet into the ground, kicking his heels to gain some leverage. He vigorously pulled against his binds and yelled frustratedly, arching his back away from the tree. He heard footsteps and angled his head desperately, twisting his body to the sound of the steps, but found that he couldn’t turn.

Two men walked in front of him. One of them had black hair, a mustache resting on his top lip, and a cigar held tightly in one hand. He had a superior air about him, his posture straight and proud, as if he deserved to have such an upper hand over Isaac, tied up as he was. Isaac disliked him immediately.

The other man, heavier than the first, had a thick brown beard and a tan cowboy’s hat. He hooked his fingers through his gun belt, and Isaac took note of the way his fingers tensed at his holster, as if preparing to use the pistol there. Isaac recognized him. He was the man with the rifle. He stared at Isaac, and Isaac stared back, a fiery hatred flustering up in his chest.

He turned his head back towards the pompous first man, scowling at him, and he held himself as tall as he could. “What do you want?” He spat.

The man breathed out a laugh, smirking wryly, a challenging glint in his eye. “Well, boy,” he began, his voice smooth and sure of itself, “we’re looking for  _ information _ . About your gang.” Isaac said nothing, and the man raised his eyebrows. “You’re an O’driscoll,” he clarified, as if his silence was one of ignorance, and not of pointed contempt.

Isaac flicked his head, trying to shoo the hair away from his eyes. “I’m not telling you anything,” he growled. He wasn’t very loyal to Colm O’driscoll, not at all-- to him, he was barely a means to an end. But he had seen the one with the tan hat when they were attacked.

As if on cue, the man leaned in, his chest puffed out threateningly. He came so close to Isaac that he could feel the breath on his face as he hissed, “Now, you listen here, boy. We aren’t-”

But before he could say anything else, Isaac spewed a thick glob of blood and saliva in his face, flinging his legs and kicking him wherever he could reach. The man, revolted, wiped his face with his sleeve, and looked at Isaac with absolute murderous animosity. Isaac wasn’t sure if he was afraid or not, and if he was, he did a surprisingly good job at hiding it, from himself and his attackers. The blood pounded through his head and the thick ringing in his ears was accompanied with the violent drumming of his heart, like the steady beat of war.

“Why, you little…” he seethed, striking Isaac at his eye with full force, his head smacking back against the sturdy trunk of the tree.

Isaac glowered at him, his breath heavy. He dropped his chin low to his chest. “You’re lucky I’m tied up,” he whispered.

The man guffawed at that, looking at the proud one, his eyebrows still raised. His surprise was well-masked, the strange glimmer in his eyes the only giveaway. Isaac gave him a once over and he found that he despised the way he held himself, more so than when he first looked at him.

There was shuffling from beyond Isaac’s view, and another man, a dirty blue button up tucked into his working pants, made his way beside the other two. He pricked an eyebrow and caught Isaac’s gaze, a heavy set stare, and Isaac found the man familiar, in a way. He couldn’t place it, not quite, but it was there- and it began itching at him.

“What’s goin’ on over here?” He asked, ripping his eyes away from Isaac’s, his posture casual and relaxed. 

The tan-hat man ignored him and raised his hand, seemingly about to give Isaac a revengeful hit across the face, but the familiar one stopped him. “Aye, aye!” He yelled. The black haired one faded into the background, watching the exchange. “What the hell is goin’ on, Bill?!” He demanded.

‘Bill’ stared at the other incredulously. “He spat on me, Morgan.”

“Well, with what I’m seein’, you probably deserved it!”

Isaac stifled a laugh behind a cough, but his smile was irrefutable, and Bill got in his face again. “What, you think this is funny, little boy?”

Isaac frowned, looking as angry as possible and answered, seriously, “Noooo, sir.” His voice was oozing with sarcasm, and he caught a glimpse of ‘Morgan’’s little smirk hidden beneath his leather hat before he was hit again, he jaw smacking closed, and all of that glee disappeared in an instant.

Bill was ripped away from him again, pulled off roughly by the collar of his shirt. A yelling match ensued shortly, but his head was swimming and he saw white behind his eyelids, so Isaac wasn’t exactly paying attention to it. His anger flared up again, and when he finally calmed the spinning sensation, he saw Morgan and the proud one speaking to one another. Bill sent him a dirty look, a warning. He studied the two as they argued, his eyes wide and his jaw set tightly.

Eventually, the proud one seemed to win. Not because he was right, Isaac decided. Just because he was in charge. 

The three of them left him there. They left him there alone, tied up against a tree, with nothing to keep him company but his regrets and the burning rage in his chest. He couldn’t think of anything disrespectful or angry enough to call them, so he just yelled after them. Dirty insults and empty demands to let him go. He kicked his legs, digging against the dirt, as if that would free him.

He had never killed a man before, but in that moment he was sure that given the chance, he would’ve strangled them both with his bare hands and left their bodies to rot with the wolves.

\--

He didn’t sleep once that night. At one point, in the dim firelight from behind, somebody he’d never seen before came over and wrapped some more rope around his legs, courtesy of his kicking. He wanted to scream and yell at him and kick some more, but he was too tired. 

He was angry. So, so angry, and he wanted to kill all of them. What right did they have, to keep him here? He’d done nothing. He’d killed nobody, he’d hurt none. 

He was angry. 

He was so,  _ so  _ angry.

So angry, in fact, that he cried. Cried such silent, sorrowful tears that his lungs could have given out right then and there and he wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised.

He was sad.

But it didn’t fit right with him. He was much more well-suited to the anger, and so he skipped right over that sorrowful spot and fell back into that rage.

He let his body go slack and waited until the morning sun licked at the night sky until he looked up again.

\--

He listened to the rising of the camp behind him, to the friendly “good morning”’s. To the rustling of tent flaps, the clinking of metal pans, the shuffling feet. He watched the reflection of the sun off the water, his heart caught in his throat in silent suffering. He wondered vaguely if any of them cared at all about who he was. He was sure they knew he was there, with how loud he had made himself the day before, but none of them cared. There wasn’t a kind soul in this camp, he thought, and decided that he would rather have died with the rest of his group instead of being brought back here. 

There was a shuffling beside him, and when he looked up, his eyes dull, he found the pompous man had returned with an uncomfortable looking man he had never seen before following closely behind him. Isaac snarled.

The pompous man gave the new one an encouraging pat on the back before retreating back to the main confines of the camp. The new one had a wide brimmed hat and unbrushed, deep brown hair tucked neatly behind his ears. His eyes and beard were just the same-- deep brown. He had an unsure air about him, and Isaac watched him silently from beneath the overgrown confines of his hair. The man gave him a once over before promptly turning back, and Isaac listened noncommittally to the hushed whisperings of a conversation that followed.

The conversation was short, and soon the man was pushed back towards Isaac.

He groaned, “What the hell do you want?!”

The man paused, sucking in a breath. He then said, “My name’s- my name’s Kieran.” Isaac said nothing, staring at him, filtering all of his anger into his eyes. He hoped that whoever this Kieran fellow was would get the hint. He apparently didn’t, as he continued, “I was with Colm O’driscoll, too.”

Isaac peered at Kieran inquisitively, furrowing his brows, his piercing blue-green eyes digging into him. Kieran shifted his weight on his feet. “Okay,” Isaac drawled, “so you’re saying it’s better here?”

Kieran seemed relieved for a moment. “I-it is, yeah.” He took a step toward Isaac. “It’s not worth it, really. Not talking, that is.”

Isaac rose his head up high, trying to display some sense of royal pride, and he hoped he looked the part in spite of the cuts and bruises he was sure that he was covered in. “It doesn’t matter.” Isaac paused, his breathing picking up, and he pinched his mouth closed into a thin line. “That man, Bill?” Kieran didn’t move his gaze. Isaac flicked his tongue over his bottom lip, grinding his teeth. “I hope he dies.”

There was another uncomfortable, short silence.

“You should just kill me,” Isaac told him. “Because I’m not telling any of you a damn thing.”

Kieran turned and left, and suddenly Isaac was alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this fandom is still going, haha. quarantine is giving me a lot of free time so i'm using it to write this :). it'll most likely be like, 15k words at most? probably less. short and sweet, really.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur wiped at the sweat on his brow, huffing as he hauled the deer onto the back of his horse, Maple. He ran a calloused hand through her dark brown mane and hoisted himself up and over his saddle. He gave her a reassuring pat and she nickered as he kicked her into a trot.

\--

When Arthur rode back into the camp at Clemens Point, he slipped off of his saddle and pulled the deer carcass onto his shoulders, trudging over to Pearson’s stall. It was early morning, just a couple of hours past dawn, and Pearson was stretching experimentally when Arthur flopped the animal near the cart. He was awarded with the usual “Thank you kindly, Mr. Morgan”.

He made a beeline for the contribution box and dropped a wad of cash he had collected during his time away into the box, promptly turning away, his sights on his tent. He had been traveling for a few days, now, chasing some treasure on a map he bought off of a stranger. Not exactly the best of business decisions, but what’s done is done, and he hoped faintly that there was something at the end of it.

But that was for some other time, he decided. He was almost at his tent and his cot, the familiar comfort of the blankets calling to him, when suddenly--

“Arthur, my boy!”

Arthur stopped in his tracks, scrunching up his face in disappointment and, hooking his fingers cooly through the loops on his gun belt, he turned on his heel to face the one and only Dutch. “Dutch,” he greeted, tipping his head in acknowledgment.

Dutch strolled over to him, a wide smile on his face. Arthur cocked an eyebrow curiously. “What’s got you so happy?” he asked suspiciously. 

Dutch pat Arthur on the back, urging him to move. As they walked alongside one another, Dutch’s smile didn’t fade. He responded, “I’ve got a lead.”

“A lead?” Arthur repeated, squinting his eyes at Dutch, who nodded. “A lead to what?”

“To Colm O’driscoll,” Dutch sneered. The regal way he held himself seemed to strengthen. “I’m sure that we’ll be able to catch him asleep if we go now. What do you say, son?”

Arthur slowed down and stopped in his tracks, kicking at the dirt with his boots, rubbing the scruff on his chin and jawline thoughtfully. “I think,” he murmured, “that you’re just out for revenge, Dutch.”

Dutch huffed indignantly and clapped a strong hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Ever the doubter,” he sighed. “Just trust me on this one thing, Arthur.” He removed his hands in turn to use them as he spoke, and Arthur was glad, as the spot on his shoulder was burning with annoyance. 

Dutch continued animatedly, “We can tie up the loose ends, don’t you see?” He sighed again. “Don’t make me beg you, son.”

Arthur slid his jaw unsuredly, but gave in with a resolute groan. “Who else is comin’?”

Dutch smirked proudly, leading him to the horses, prattling off about the plan, but all Arthur could think about was how close he came to sleeping in some semblance of a bed before he was whisked away.

\--

Upon arriving at the hideout Dutch had heard about, the 4 of them, Dutch, Arthur, Javier, and Bill, surveyed the area. The initial plan was to go in quietly and attack Colm in his bed, but just like most of Dutch’s recent plans, things didn’t exactly go as expected.

Arthur and Javier on the left and Bill and Dutch on the right. Both pairs were supposed to silently make their way through the guards on either side and meet at the cabin in the middle. Upon killing the first O’driscoll, his hand splayed with blood as he stabbed his neck, Arthur heard a gunshot, and in a flash, all hell broke loose. He threw himself behind the first pretence of cover he could find, and so did Javier. The two men pulled out their guns and Arthur cursed to himself, peeking out from his spot behind one of the cabins. He caught a glimpse of Bill’s tan hat, his rifle glinting in the morning sun as he sent a shot into the window of another cabin that he couldn’t see.

Arthur raised both of his guns, loading them, and pointed them at one of the particularly ballsy men, hitting him square between his eyes. He huffed and quickly brushed his hair out of his eyes, catching Javier’s worried look for a moment, and the two moved forward together.

There were yells and shouts of anger, and Arthur raised his guns and shot at anybody he saw, making his way over to Colm’s cabin. Javier followed behind him, and together the pair broke down the door to the cabin they had hoped would hold Colm. Only to find it empty. Again.

“God _ dammit _ !” Arthur slammed his fist into the wall. Javier groaned. 

“Again?”

Arthur scoffed, holstering his guns. “Again!” he assured, huffing out a breath.

Javier followed suit and holstered his own guns, walking back to the door. “I’ll go see about Dutch and Bill.”

Arthur sighed, nodding, glancing absentmindedly around the barren room, before stepping out and off the run-down porch. He stretched and glanced around at the sparse bodies littering the ground, feeling especially beat. 

Arthur dropped his head to the side and stared absentmindedly as Javier spoke to Dutch, Bill standing with his rifle held easily in his hands. He rubbed a hand over his face and looked down at his fingers, twitching with exhaustion, and he dragged himself over to the rest of the group.

“Alright,” Dutch put his hands up, as if to calm them all, his eyes closed and mouth pinched. “What we’re going to do,” he drawled, “is search the cabins, and the bodies.” He flicked his attention between them all. “See if we can find anything else useful among all of this. Got it?”

They all gave their own signs of confirmation, and Arthur stepped over the bodies of the men on the floor to start in one of the small shacks towards the edge of the hideout. He perused distractedly, opening the drawers of an old dresser, kicking at the floorboards to see if there was anything hidden beneath them, but came out empty handed. 

As he was digging through the coat of one of the men lain to rest on the steps of what was supposed to be Colm’s cabin, he heard a panicked shout from the back of him, and he dropped the body, running over with his guns drawn. He busted through the door to find Bill nursing a bleeding hand, an unconscious boy at his feet, no older than 16, a fresh red mark on the side of his face. 

He had messy, light brown hair, grown just beyond the point of being short, but looked overgrown rather than long. He was fairly tall for his age, and his knuckles were a range of blues and purples. There was a fading bruise on his cheek, opposite of the red mark.

The inside of the building was covered in blood. Against a wall there was a gory scene of what seemed to be part of somebody’s head, and a trail leading to the unconscious kid on the ground. Upon further inspection, he found that beside the kid was another boy, this one around the age of 19. His head was blown apart by a gunshot, his mouth open in eternal shock, and Arthur noticed grimly that there was only one eye, a deep, kindly brown, left in his head. 

Bill rubbed at his hand, glaring at the unconscious boy. Arthur tucked his guns back into his holsters just as Dutch and Javier arrived at the door. “The damn kid bit me!” Bill exclaimed, brandishing a deep mark of teeth in his hand, bleeding. Arthur raised his eyebrows, impressed. This kid definitely had some balls. 

“Bit you?” Javier laughed. Arthur responded with a chuckle, too, deep and gravelly. Dutch bent over to look at the two bodies on the ground, one long dead, the other breathing with a vengeful life. He hummed contemplatively.

He stood back up, straight, putting his hands on his hips, and Arthur paled slightly in seeing the conspiratory shimmer in his eyes. “How about we take him?” Dutch hummed, and the three of them looked at him questionably. “Like we did with good old Kieran.”

“Oh, I don’t think-” Arthur began, but Bill interrupted him.

“That sounds like a good idea,” he said, a scowl on his face. “Rough him up a little. Get some information.” He rubbed at the bite on his hand, muttering something about hoping the kid wasn’t ‘infected’.

Dutch nodded his head decidedly, brushing at his vest. “It’s settled, then,” he announced, spinning on his heel and gliding out of the door. Arthur gaped between them all and left Javier and Bill in the cabin to deal with the kid, following Dutch with much less grace.

“Now, Dutch,” Arthur put his hands out carefully, “that’s not even a man yet. We can’t do that to him.” 

Dutch raised an imposing eyebrow at Arthur. “Why not?” 

Arthur watched as Bill hauled the boy, his eyes shut as he groaned, and threw him harshly onto the back of his horse, Brown Jack. “Because,” Arthur pressed, his voice dubious, “just look at him, Dutch.” 

Dutch looked back at the pitiful boy draped across the back of Brown Jack, his shaggy hair unkempt and bloody, and he turned back to Arthur. “I don’t see the problem,” he insisted. “He’s an O’driscoll.”

“He’s a  _ child _ , Dutch. You gotta see that, don’t you?”

“He’s older than you were when you joined us!”

“I know, but,” Arthur began, but then there was a yell from the boy. He looked at them, dazed and confused, his throat thick and sounding as such. 

“Hey!” He said, and Arthur caught a glimpse of familiar-looking, swimming teal eyes, and he was taken aback for a moment. “Where am I?” the boy demanded. Bill grunted and slammed the butt of his rifle into the back of the kid’s head, and he slumped back down against the ancy horse.

Dutch sighed. “Come on, son. We’re not killing him.” He called for The Count, and Dutch slung himself into the saddle with a loving pat to her neck. He extended his arms, trying to prove his point. “He should be thankful to us-- in a way, we’re his saviors, Arthur.”

Arthur hardened his gaze, and responded, simply, “Right.” He whistled, deep and shrill, for Maple, who came trotting over with a joyous whinny, and he lifted himself onto her back. As Javier mounted Boaz, the group began their ride back to camp. Arthur sent a look Javier’s way, and Javier returned it, the both of them hesitant for this plan of Dutch’s.

Though he figured that if it had worked with Kieran, maybe it would work with this boy, and they could finally put this Colm O’driscoll business to rest, once and for all. But a part of him, as always, was doubtful.


	3. Chapter 3

It was the second day of Isaac’s capture, and he hadn’t eaten or drank anything since the night before these people attacked their camp. Despite how much his stomach growled and the dryness of his throat protested, he decided, in all of his stubbornness, that he would rather die of starvation or dehydration than take a single drop or crumb of what these people gave him. If they ever gave him anything.

But, even if they didn’t, he sure as all hell would never ask a single one of them for anything.

He was convinced he was going to die here, and if that was the case, then he would die with his dignity intact.

He spent most of his time staring blankly across the water. He spoke only if spoken to, usually by one such Bill Williamson, or the pompous man that he had heard be called “Dutch”. He was only allowed to move to take a piss, which was a very uncomfortable thing to do. He found himself wondering how many people were behind him, and how long he’d have to sit in this hell of utter boredom before he could taste the sweet release of death. The only saving grace was that they had decided to discard the binds on his legs.

At one point along the line, a small child had wandered to him in curiosity. He seemed on edge, glancing behind himself, his wide doe eyes searching. He had clean, brushed brown hair and freckles dotting across his cheeks. He had stood on his tip toes and whispered, unprompted, to Isaac, “Don’t tell anybody I’m over here.”

Isaac turned his head and studied the little boy, an interested twinkle in his eyes. “I won’t,” he promised quietly. 

The boy gave him a satisfied smile. “My name is Jack,” he said. He had promptly forgotten about the whispering. Isaac offered Jack a little grin. “What’s yours?” 

Isaac blinked at him and hummed teasingly. “I think I’ve forgotten,” he lied. 

Jack pursed his lips at him doubtfully. “You forgot your own name?” he pried.

Isaac sighed, dramatic and fake. “Yes,” he poked out his bottom lip, still split. 

Jack crossed his arms, looking considerably wary for his little body, and it was comical, in a way. For the first time in days, Isaac sputtered out a friendly laugh, in spite of the way his ribs ached against him. Jack’s frown only deepened. 

“Are you an O’driscoll?”

Isaac looked askance at him. He thought for a moment before answering, “No.”

“Oh.” Jack dropped his arms, a look of innocent confusion painting his features. “Then why are you here?”

“Because I was with Colm O’driscoll at the wrong time.”

“But-” Jack didn’t seem any less confused, “you just said you weren’t an O’driscoll.”

“You’re right. I’m not an O’driscoll, not really-- I was only with him because I was trying to find someone.”

Jack pinched the edge of his lips, his unhappiness laughably uncovered. “You don’t make a lot of sense.” He huffed. “And I think you’re a liar, too! Nobody can forget their own name,” he accused, matter-of-factly, as if he had just caught Isaac red handed.

Isaac hummed lowly, thoughtfully. “I think you’re a smart kid,” he praised, and Jack puffed out his chest proudly. “Tell you what,” he whispered, “you come back to talk to me tomorrow, and maybe I’ll tell you what my name is. But it’s a secret, alright?”

Jack puffed, upset. “Why tomorrow?” he whined. 

“Well,” Isaac thought for a minute, “why not?”

Jack squinted at him, trying to look intimidating, but failed miserably. “I think you’re a little mean.” 

“I’m sorry. But I think I have the right to be a little mean, Jack.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m tied up,” he pulled against his binds to illustrate his point, “and I’m hungry.”

“Oh.” Jack looked down, contemplative. He wrung his hands nervously. “How old are you?”

“Me?” Isaac blinked. “16.”

“You’re the littlest person I’ve ever met, then.”

Isaac tilted his head. “Is that so?” He whispered, his voice kind and inviting, and Jack decided that maybe he wasn’t so mean after all.

“Yeah.”

There was a yell from the camp behind them, Jack’s name. “Coming!” He yelled back, his cheeks flushing. He ran off into the arms of his mother, and Isaac could hear her scolding him for ‘going near the O’driscoll’. His mind wandered, and he wondered how Kieran had ever been accepted into a gang like this.

\--

There was a party behind him. The loud laughing and lively strum of the guitar was a dead giveaway, and the wafting scent of food sent him drifting in a heavenly sort of spiral, his stomach doing flips in on itself. His mouth watered, against his pride, and he cursed himself.

The night was fine, in a way, the bright stars shining above them all. That was, until a very obviously drunk Bill stumbled over to Isaac, a knife in one hand and a bottle in the other. He shook the knife up to Isaac’s face, whispering, threateningly, “You scared, little boy?”

Isaac didn’t say anything, squinting his eyes again as that boredom in the pit of his stomach twisted itself into that fierce anger. He ran his tongue over his lips, preparing for a slap of some sort, and bit Bill’s hand, as hard as he could. 

The knife dropped and clattered noiselessly to the ground, the damp grass softening its blow. Bill shouted angrily and grabbed onto the cuff of Isaac’s shirt, pushing him up against the tree, and raising his hand. Isaac braced for impact, but it didn’t come, as the hand was pulled off of him forcefully. Isaac slowly opened his eyes, finding the still drunk Bill in the clasp of somebody else he hadn’t seen before. 

“What’re ya doing away from the party, Bill?” He asked gruffly, a thick facade of chummy companionship coated through his words. He gave Bill a pat on the back and the man stumbled away, turning around to argue only for a second, before grumbling and walking back to the loud music, his footsteps fading in the wet grass. 

Isaac didn’t recognize his face in the dark. The man watched bleakly as his fellow gang member drifted back into the party, and turned his attention to Isaac. He didn’t say anything, his jaw clenching minutely, but he kicked the forgotten blade towards Isaac, before indifferently returning to the campfire. Isaac followed his movements with his eyes, gawking uselessly. He turned his attention down to the knife, his heart pumping intensely against his ribs.

Carefully, so as to not move the blade, he forced himself down to a sitting position. He grabbed hold of the knife between his beaten boots, contorting his body and raising his feet as far as they would go. His body throbbed and screamed at him to stop, but he was so close. He just had to… get a hold… on the-

Yes! He let out a triumphant breath, the blade grasped tightly between his teeth. He thought briefly at how ridiculous it was that he was using his teeth for everything except for chewing these past few days, but didn’t dwell on it.

Painstakingly, he turned his head, letting the knife sit in the crook of his neck. He had one chance to get this to where it needed to be.

Dreadfully slowly, he moved his muscles only just, being sure to guide the blade to exactly where it needed to be. Down his upper arm… at his elbow… just a little further, at his wrist… and he grasped the blade tightly in his hand, a rush of excitement coursing through his body, despite the exhaustion. 

He clutched the handle of the knife and drove it into whatever rope he was able to reach, his breath heavy and his heart clenching in on itself. Were he caught, he would be killed. He was sure of it. He listened intently as the rope was sawed apart, the thread snapping, his heartbeat increasing frantically until he was finally free. 

The ropes were still tied around his wrists, but he didn’t care about that now, because he could move his arms again. He stood up, his head screaming at him to run and not look back. But he chanced a glimpse to the campfire, to the man who kicked the blade, and saw that he was looking back. Dirty blonde hair, illuminated by the firelight, and a familiar grin on his face. He nodded just the bit, encouraging, and Isaac didn’t need much. He turned and fled.


	4. Chapter 4

The morning after their celebration from their successful stagecoach robbery was a lazy one. There was hardly any frantic movement about camp, everybody getting their well deserved share of rest after the festivities. 

That was, until it was found that the tree holding the usual brooding boy was vacant.

Then that peaceful rest was snapped in half.

Arthur hadn’t slept much, though, and had in fact been waiting anxiously for the moment of realization from the rest of camp. He didn’t know why he did that the night before, but he decided to chalk it up to a mixture of the moonshine that was in his system and the unprecedented sympathy for the boy. In a way, it was like looking into a mirror of his younger self. The quick temper and short sighted rage and his insistence on attacking like a feral cat.

Arthur frowned. He hoped vaguely that the boy knew how to hunt, and was smart enough not to leave too much to track him with. And then he hoped that he would have enough gratitude in him to not lead the authorities back to their camp. That was definitely something that drunk Arthur had completely skipped over in his piss-poor excuse of a plan, and he mentally smacked himself upside the head. 

Dutch yelled about the camp, waking them all up. He asked who had been on guard the night before, and John had gone a deep scarlet, admitting that it had been him. Him, who let the boy walk right by, not even noticing.

Charles woke up and offered to track him, which Dutch full-heartedly agreed to. And then Charles came to Arthur’s tent and shook him, and Arthur was filled with dread, slowly moving his hand to look at Charles, his silhouette framed by the bright sun.

“The boy’s escaped,” he explained briefly.

Arthur sighed, dragging a hand across his jaw and sitting up reluctantly. “I heard.”

“You’re coming with me, alright?”

Arthur tensed his lips thinly, trying his best to go slow without seeming suspicious. He prayed to whatever god was listening that the kid was able to go and go  _ far _ in the night, but he doubted it. He slipped his hand over to his table and set his hat atop his head. “Alright,” he repeated.

\--

The sun poked tentatively through the leaves, the hazy warmth beaming down onto the two men. Arthur would have called it a nice day, but the circumstances soured it for him, so the good weather was wasted in his mind.

Charles, crouched down low to the ground, followed the footprints in the mud. “This way, probably,” he mumbled, more to himself than his companion, sending Arthur a questioning gaze. Their horses were tied up to a nearby tree. They had been tracking him for just an hour or so and Charles figured that they were hot on his tail, despite Arthur’s insistent lounging.

Arthur leaned carelessly against a tree, holding his gun belt in a loose grasp, his hat covered low over his eyes. He wasn’t the least bit concerned, Charles had noticed, and in fact seemed to be hindering their progress. It was near infuriating, and he wished, for the first time, that he had left Arthur back at camp. 

“Come on,” Charles prodded, and Arthur peeked out from beneath the rim of his hat, his eyes set firm and tense. He sighed and kicked himself away from the tree, scratching at the stubble on his jaw.

Charles frowned at him and the two stood, continuing their trek deeper into the trees, Arthur’s heart thudding in his throat, and he prayed, again, that the kid would have made it farther.

Charles dragged his hand along the tree trunks as they passed by each one, his gaze vigilant and calculating. Arthur breathed in the deep scent of plant and soil that the breeze carried. “Hm,” Charles hummed, slowly hardening his expression. “The trail seems to end here.”

Arthur tilted his head low. “So, we lost him?”

Charles looked aghast at Arthur. “Just for now,” he assured. 

The two were quiet for a short time, the air tense as they searched for anything else in the area. But then, from high in the trees above them, a twig snapped. Charles flipped his head up, searching, and, filled with horrific anticipation, Arthur followed suit. The two stared up into the treetops, only to find a boy among the leaves with a hand clapped violently over his mouth, his blue eyes wide. 

“That’s him!” Charles shouted, and Arthur bit harshly on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from cursing. The boy hurried to raise himself, a panic obviously sweeping through, and he scurried to the edge of the branch like a mouse. He was shockingly quick, and without a moment of hesitation, he took the leap to the closest branch, holding on for dear life.

Charles and Arthur watched him, mouth agape, as he climbed through the trees. Then abruptly, Charles grabbed ahold of Arthur’s shirt collar and pulled him into a run, and the two followed the blur of clothes they could catch amidst the shining sun and the green of the leaves.

Partway down the line, they lost sight of him, and the woods were quiet again. Charles watched closely, Arthur stood beside him, and the two listened to the soft whisperings of the forest.

Then, just as sudden as before, there was a graceful drop into the grass behind them, and the boy was off running. Charles took off behind him, calling for Arthur to follow him, which he, reluctantly, did. 

His heart thumping against his ribs and his breathing shallow, Arthur could barely register it as Charles yelled at him. “Get your lasso, Arthur!”

He pulled the rope out, swinging it around and preparing to throw, but he didn’t. He caught another glimpse of the boy’s eyes, raging and pleading all at once, and he hesitated. But then Charles shouted beside him, and he threw the lasso out, wrapping it tightly around the boy, and he was flung down into the ground. He shouted in pain and writhed savagely against the rope, but Charles grabbed the rope from Arthur and pulled it tighter.

“Let me go!” he screamed, his voice thick with emotion, and he twisted, trying to kick at Charles as his arms and legs were bound tightly. 

Charles hit the kid firmly upside the head, which didn’t do much. He still twisted and squirmed and contorted himself in all strange ways, tugging at the rope. Leaving him on the ground, Charles stood up straight, and stormed his way to Arthur, pointing at him accusingly. “What was that?!” He yelled, “You almost let him get away!”

Arthur opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, his head pounding with a relentless headache. “I’m sorry, Charles, I just--” he stuttered meekly, “I’m sorry. Don’t mention it to anybody else. Please.”

Charles agreed in some unwilling grunt of affirmation and whistled for Taima. Arthur caught the boy’s gaze on him, a bitter grudge digging through him, and they were quiet as they rode back to camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor isaac is right back where he started smh


	5. Chapter 5

A week passed.

This time, Isaac was tied up on the edge of camp instead of away from it, near the water.

His stomach seemed to be eating at what was left of him, and the hunger was panging, but he still asked for nothing. He could smell the stew as it was being prepared, and he could feel the looks he was given. He could also return them with just as much loathing.

Jack tried to venture close to talk to him again, but was quickly pulled away by what Isaac assumed to be his mother. Jack sent him small smiles and a longing curiosity when their paths crossed, but at the time being, they didn’t speak again.

Isaac still kept his mouth shut in relation to Colm O’driscoll. He was sure that they would give up at any time now; that they would snap at him and kill him because anything he’d be able to offer would be useless by now. Yet time and time again, they kept him alive. They forced water down his throat. Maybe they knew that he was just waiting to die at this point. Maybe that’s why they refused to kill him.

Or maybe what was really killing him was his self-sabotaging stubbornness. The refusal to speak on the matter of his personal principles, a sad attempt to avenge a good man by withholding the information these people could probably find elsewhere. It was the same stubbornness his mother had compared to his father, her sweaty hand, clammy with sickness, holding his own little one. And she smiled at him, and suddenly, her hand fell limp, and he was falling, too, and he was-

He started awake, a cold sweat dripping down his face, his hair stuck against his forehead. He swallowed thickly, his mouth dry, the hot sun beating down on his sunburned, freckled skin. When had he fallen asleep?

There was a dark-skinned man beside him, scraping at the beginning of an arrowhead, his black hair cascading over his shoulders and down his back. He had heard the man be called 

‘Charles’. He sent Isaac a glance of acknowledgment, but said nothing.

Ever since he escaped, there had been turns of people watching over him, like he was an unruly child in a playpen. It disgusted him, how helpless he was. 

Kieran seemed to have a particular empathy toward his situation, which was understandable since it was the same kind he had been in not too long ago. He tried to slip Isaac food when he could, but no matter how much his body screamed at him to  _ eat, _ he stuck by his vow. He took nothing from them, even from the gentle, horse-loving man that was Kieran.

\--

For the first time, Isaac saw the achingly familiar Arthur by his side when he awoke, the sun peaking through the night sky. Isaac stared at him as he surveyed the area, itching at his consistently trimmed stubble, lost in thought.

At one point, Arthur had snapped his head back, looking past the shade of his hat to Isaac with deep blue-green eyes. Isaac opened and closed his mouth, babbling wordlessly, silently. He licked his lips nervously and the two stared at one another. Isaac’s brow furrowed, and he finally found his voice. 

“Why?” he whispered, sounding stuttery and scratchy.  _ Why did you let me go? _ He wanted to ask.

_ Why did you help me? _

_ Why did you bring me back? _

_ Why can’t you just  _ kill me _ already? _

_ Why, why, why? _

But he left it at that, his chapped lips parted slightly in endless confusion. Arthur studied him for a moment longer and tensed his lips, tucking his head down, pulling his hat low. “‘Cause,” he responded, softly, “it’s my job, kid.”

Isaac didn’t look away, opting to just stare at the strange angle he was given of the top of Arthur’s hat and slight glimpses of his face. Ultimately, Isaac continued, his voice strangled, “You’re all keeping me here…” he squinted his eyes, raw emotion flowing through his whole body, ripping at his chest and twitching at the ends of his nerves in his fingertips and the tips of his toes. “... and none of you know anything about me. How do you even know that it’s worth it?”

Arthur looked back over at him. “We don’t,” he answered straightly. 

“Do you think it is?” Isaac whispered, pleading.

“I can’t answer that.”

“Why not?”

He just shook his head.

“Your name’s Arthur, right? Arthur Morgan?”

Arthur put his hand on his knee and set a leather bound book down beside him, looking up at Isaac exasperatedly. “What’s got you so talkative today, huh?”

“You have,” Isaac returned boldly.

Arthur chuckled heartily, shaking his head. “Fine.” He adjusted his hat, leaning back against the tree Isaac was tied to. “What’s your story, kid?”

Isaac gazed down at him, gobsmacked, in a way, that he was responding positively. He turned and looked around the rest of camp, finding most of them fast asleep, and, with some trouble, he shifted into a sitting position himself. 

“It’s not a very good one,” he warned.

“Neither is mine,” Arthur grunted.

“Or very interesting.”

Arthur chuckled lowly at that. “I’m sure I’ve sat through worse,” he said kindly.

Isaac hummed briefly in acknowledgment. The two were silent for a time, Arthur patiently watching the sky shift into proper morning as the boy beside him gathered his thoughts. The air between them was cut abruptly as Isaac began, and Arthur shifted slightly, listening in.

“I-” he paused, feeling silly, but forced himself to continue. “My Mama died when I was little.” He glanced over to find Arthur looking at him through the corner of his eyes. Sympathetically. Understanding. “She was sick… with something. I don’t remember, really. My Pa, well, he- he was an outlaw, like you all.” He stopped himself again, gazing up into the sky, white wisps of cloud crossing above them with the breeze.

Arthur blinked and looked up into the sky as well. “So was mine.”

Isaac glanced over, a smirk pulling at his lips. “I guess it runs in your family, huh?”

Isaac was pleasantly surprised to be awarded with a tiny laugh and a light, playful tap to his arm, tied up as they were. “Seems like it runs in yours, too, kid.” 

“Maybe,” he sighed. He continued, “but he didn’t really act like you’d expect, though, from what I remember. My Pa-- he was kind to us both, even though he could’ve left. I wasn’t exactly… planned.” Arthur nodded, a tense look in his eyes. “He would send letters and money when he could. He visited as often as possible, too. Taught me to fish and hunt. He was good. Never raised a hand to either of us.”

“But,” Isaac sighed, “my uncle didn’t like him much. So when my Mama died…” he licked his lips anxiously. “... he, in all of his wisdom, decided it’d be best to fake my death, too. He told the entire town we died in a robbery, put two crosses in front of our little home, and whisked me off to live in a city far east. As if that was a better life for me.” He scoffed.

“Are you always this sarcastic?” Arthur asked, his voice terse. There was humor in his tone, but he seemed far away. Distracted. Tense.

“Only sometimes.” And Arthur grinned briefly. Isaac blinked and turned away. He proceeded, “I lived out there for most of what I can remember. But then my uncle died, and…” he laughed sharply, “I guess I inherited his bad judgement, because instead of trying to build a life for myself, I grabbed all I could and started my journey out west. To find my father, or find who killed him, or anything of the sort.”

“Ya don’t know if he’s dead?” Arthur mumbled.

Isaac shook his head. “I heard a lot of stories about him, whoever he was, and most of them were… very inconsistent. Courtesy of my uncle.”

“So you came out here looking for answers?”

Isaac sighed, peering at Arthur through the corners of his eyes. “Something like that,” he responded delicately. Arthur pinched his lips into a thin line. 

“And how’s that goin’ for you?”

Isaac barked out a startled laugh (more like a cackle), smiling. “Yet you call me sarcastic.”

Arthur’s smile rose and fell astonishingly quickly. He glanced around the camp, now milling with awakened members, a few curious stares sent their way. His gaze hardened and he drew the hat down over his eyes. 

“See, the problem is--” Isaac sputtered, “I’ve been told so little about him that the most I can go off of is that he’s an outlaw, my Mama said he has my eyes, and I have some memory of his last name starting off with an M. It’s not exactly a lot to go off of.” He sounded sour, that quick temper flaring up inside him against nothing in particular.

“So you fell in with Colm O’driscoll?”

“He has the biggest gang in the area. If anybody was most likely to know something about my Pa, it would be him. That was obviously a dead end, though.” Isaac sighed. “It’s not even like finding him should be such a struggle, though. I have a photo of my Ma and I, and my Pa, but his face is cut off. Just another inconvenience. It’s all… unfair.”

Arthur was quiet. There was a thick unease in the air, now, and instead of focusing on it, Isaac decided to direct his attention towards the morning bustle of the camp.

“How come you won’t just tell us what you know?” He questioned. “Or at least have the common decency to act like you don’t know anything, like Kieran had?” He nodded his head toward said man.

Isaac said nothing for a few beats. “That man with the… the tan hat? Bill?”

Arthur nodded.

“He killed my friend.”

“The one who was with you in the cabin?”

Isaac bent in on himself, his eyes hard and piercing. “Yes.”

There was a long silence.

“Did you ever say your name, kid?”

“Is that your way of asking?” Arthur sent him a brief warning look, and Isaac would’ve raised his hands in surrender, were they free. There was a short pause. “Could you do me a favor?”

“You haven’t exactly answered my question yet,” he countered hoarsely.

“Right, I just- tell Jack my name, too, please. I promised I’d tell it to him, but…” he trailed off and Arthur gave him a brief nod of affirmation. The boy sighed. “It’s Isaac.”

“Ah,” was all Arthur answered with. He bit harshly on the inside of his cheek. “Your mother. What was her name?”

“Why’re you asking me that?”

“Just answer the damn question, Isaac,” he sighed.

Isaac licked his lips. They were so chapped now. “Her name was Eliza.”

Arthur stayed quiet, his hat low over his eyes, hiding his expression.

Isaac didn’t say anything more, just staring serenely over the expanse of the camp. He thought deep into his memory, back on those hazy memories of his father. A blurred face, indistinct, but a kind voice and a gentle, doting hand on his shoulder as he pointed to the rabbit sniffing the air experimentally a few feet from them. A proud laugh floating through the air as he walked out of the shallow stream, drenched, but with a large fish in his arms. Careful and patient as he wrote his name for the first time.

When he slighted his head to look at Arthur once more, he saw that the space he had been occupying was empty, and was replaced by one of the women, reading out of an old book, only offering him quick glances. And suddenly, the pang of hunger was back again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anything slightly reaction inducing: happens  
> isaac: *licks his lips*  
> nervous habits, amiright?
> 
> i've had to add and change things in this chapter quite a few times but i'm not actually properly editing any of these chapters, so sorry if there's some mistakes here and there. i'm not exactly the best writer or typer or even all that good at anything at all so i apologize if my incompetence shines through (●´ω｀●)


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur blew out a cloud of smoke, his third cigarette within the past half hour held tightly in his fingers. He felt so dirty, like he was told something he didn’t have the right to know, and he couldn’t stop the trembling shake in his hands. 

He stared out over the water, the sun high above the camp, burning down purposefully. He toed the water with his boots, his legs hanging off the edge of the old wooden dock. The headache from before was now, mercifully, nothing more than a dim, faded thumping.

The crisp click of shoes against the wood approached him from behind, and he tilted his head back to see Sadie Adler, her hair held in a braid over her shoulder, coming closer. She sat down on the dock beside Arthur, her hat casting a protective shadow over her eyes from the harsh sun. 

She rested her arms on her legs, hanging over the edge into the water, and Arthur silently offered her a cigarette, which she took gratefully. He lit hers from his own and she took a deep huff, blowing the smoke thinly. They were quiet for a short time. 

“You know,” Sadie began, “you’ve been acting strange.”

Arthur breathed out a wry laugh. “Yeah?”

She ignored him. “Charles noticed it too.”

“‘Course he did.” Arthur chewed mindlessly on the inside of his cheek, watching the ripples of the water as fish moved beneath the surface. Cautiously, he began, “Can I tell ya somethin’, Sadie?”

She blinked and glanced at him seriously. “O’ course.”

“But, you can’t go blabbin’ out about it ‘round camp.”

Sadie straightened her posture, looking at him incredulously. “Who do you think I am?”

Arthur smiled fondly. “I don’t mean nothing by it. I’m just tellin’ you.”

“Yeah, alright.” She blew out a wisp of smoke. “Just spit it out, would you, Arthur?”

Arthur gazed out thoughtfully over the water. “I had a son. And a woman, once.” He paused, chewing again on the inside of his cheek. “They died.”

Sadie studied him intently for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur shook his head. “It was a long time ago,” he whispered, assuredly. “But…” he sucked in a breath, “the boy. He- he has the same name as my son. It’s just… it’s messin’ with my head.”

Sadie turned to look at him, strung with his hands behind the tree, his head down low. “What’s his name?”

“Isaac.” Arthur slid his jaw. “And he-- he told me about his childhood. ‘Bout how his Mama died when he was little, an’ his dad was an outlaw. How his uncle faked his death for him so that he could take him out East, and how--” his voice dwindled down to a meager breath, and Sadie put a momentary hand on his arm to steady his nerves. He took a deep, jittery breath, his hands quivering intensely. He stubbed the cigarette out on the edge of the dock and put his hands strong against his legs. 

“Said he came out West to look for his Pa,” he whispered. “And I just can’t shake the feeling that maybe that’s…” He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling ashamed at the way his voice shook unsurely, at the way his eyes watered, at the way he… at the way he cried. “Ah, shit, I-” He bent over, startled, covering his face with a trembling hand. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I’m sorry, I can’t-”

Sadie bent forward, trying to catch his eyes in hers. She put a steady, sure hand to his shoulder, and he stifled his sobs, despite the way it burned his lungs to keep it all so quiet. He was a disgusting, blubbering mess, but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t stop. He wanted to stop, he didn’t want…  _ this _ . He tried to force himself to shut the hell up, to stop being such a goddamned wimp, but he couldn’t.

So he cried into his hand, shameful as he did, with Sadie’s sober hand keeping him grounded as best as she could.

When he was finally able to calm himself down to a somewhat presentable point, he dragged his hand down his face, sighing deeply. He apologized again, but was quickly brushed off.

Sadie and he were silent for a time, the both of them drifting into their own worlds. Arthur thought back on memories he hadn’t for years. Of the swell of pride in his chest whenever he saw his son, or the careful, flowing pen strokes on each letter he received from Eliza, no matter how few and far between they were.

“So, you think…” Sadie paused, choosing her words carefully. “That the O’driscoll might be your long-lost son?”

Arthur clamored out a quick, sullen laugh, wiping at his nose. “It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that.”

“It sounds impossible, if I’m honest with you, Arthur,” she mumbled, her tone gentle, and Arthur nodded. 

“It is,” he reassured. “It probably is.” He pinched his mouth into a tight line, nodding, and bent his head down. He rubbed his neck, embarrassed. “I’m a right old fool,” he joked, sadly. “If I had any sense in me then I’d… I’d forget about it completely, but-- I just can’t… it seems all too close to be a coincidence, don’t it?” 

Sadie considered it for a moment, her eyes drifting upward. “Well,” she contended, “the physical resemblance is there. I’ll admit that. But it’s still far fetched.”

"Is it, though?"

Sadie thought about it, but didn't answer.

“Dutch won’t believe me for a second.”

Sadie countered, “He might. If you have the proper proof, and not all of this… circumstantial memory stuff.”

Arthur chuckled softly. “He might.” He thought for a moment, kneading his hands together, and perked up unexpectedly. “I-- crap, Sadie, I still have the photo. Of us.” He stood, his heart beating, and Sadie stood to follow him.

He walked swiftly, with Sadie at his heels, confusion on her face. He slid beneath his tent and opened his chest, rustling through the clothes, digging and digging deep down to the bottom. Sadie was bent over his shoulder keenly, her eyebrows scrunched together. Arthur pulled an old leather book, the edges frayed, obviously gone through years of use. He raised it triumphantly, flashing a smile at Sadie, and sat on his cot, flipping through the pages of old drawings and writings.

“What is it, Arthur?” She asked, exasperated.

“My old journal,” he answered, his gaze concentrated and sharp. “Most of ‘em were burned up in a fire months back, but-- I saved this one, since I keep all of my photos in it when we’re on the move. It’s the most important.”

Sadie flickered her gaze to the photos lined above Arthur’s cot. She watched as he slowed his flipping and stared at a photo in the book, his expression unreadable. She tenderly sat down beside him, holding her hands out for permission, and Arthur slowly handed it over to her. She felt honored, in a way; he was revealing something so personal to him. Maybe it was the fact that Sadie had felt the loss of a family, such as he has, that convinced him to show her.

She gingerly ran a thumb along the photo, cracked and faded with age. It was a young pair, a small baby boy in the middle. One of them was Arthur, an affectionate grin on his face, and beside him was a woman, shorter, with long hair pulled partially up behind her ears. The boy between them was looking at the camera inquisitively. 

“We took two that day,” Arthur told her, his voice thick with caution. “One for me, and one for them.” He clenched his jaw and scratched at his stubble. “I can only think that…” his voice trailed off. “He mentioned to me that he had a photo of him and his parents. I don’t know if he still does, in a pocket we didn’t check or somethin’,” he added hastily, “but there’s a good chance. And even if he don’t, then he’d surely recognize it, won’t he?”

“Do you wanna know what I think?” Sadie asked. Arthur looked over at her expectantly, and she delicately passed the journal back into his grasp. “I think you’re setting yourself up for heartbreak, Arthur Morgan.”

Arthur thought over it quickly. He studied the photo in the open journal, and slowly closed it, his excitement dwindling. “Maybe,” he said, decidedly, “but I still, just… I need to be sure.” He tucked the journal into his satchel and stood himself up, a renewed glare of determination in his eyes. He adjusted his hat, and told Sadie, his view askance, “I need to speak with Dutch and Hosea.” And he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love sadie, she's great, and her and arthur having a friendship gives me life
> 
> also sad arthur :(


	7. Chapter 7

“Psst!”

Isaac opened his eyes, his head heavy, and looked around. 

“Down here!”

Isaac furrowed his brow, twisting his body. “Jack?” he whispered, a humorous smile in his voice. “What are you doing behind the tree?”

“I’m hiding,” he hissed, and Isaac saw him peek out, his big eyes searching the area suspiciously. “Mama is asleep, and I’m playing hide and seek with my Papa.”

Isaac blinked, glancing up into the sky. It seemed to be late afternoon, now, but all the days had started to blend together for the boy. Constantly lost in an array of thoughts, or entertaining himself with listening in on the conversations of the members around camp. Watching them go about their daily chores and such, all while most of them were ignoring him. It was like he was invisible.

He turned back and angled his head awkwardly over his shoulder, licking his dry lips. “Which one is your Papa?” 

Jack glanced up at him, pursing his lips quizzically. “John is,” he answered, as if Isaac should know better. “The one with the big scars on his face.”

Isaac stretched his legs out and away from the tree trunk, planting them decidedly into the dirt. He scanned the camp, his eyes squinted and watchful. He saw Arthur approach Dutch, who was speaking intently with another member Isaac had heard be called “Micah”, who tended to ignore him completely. Though he had faced a small taste of his ridicule at some point.

He continued looking until he caught sight of shoulder length, straggly black hair. The man was peering into a tent, ridiculously overplaying his confusion for where his son had gone. 

Isaac grinned and nodded his head towards John. “Him?”

“Yeah,” Jack confirmed. He distractedly picked at the bark on the tree. “Where’s your papa?”

“Mine?” Isaac hummed and cocked his head. “I don’t know.”

“You’re not lying again, are you?” Jack challenged, and Isaac smirked reactionarily. 

“No, not this time.”

“Ah.” Jack stepped back, tucked father behind the tree, and the only thing Isaac could see that told him he was behind there was his tiny hand resting on the side.

“Where’d he get the scars?”

Jack perked up, sucking in his lips introspectively. He leaned around the tree, glanced around nervously and stood on his tip toes, motioning for Isaac to lean down. He did, clumsily stretching his legs farther out to slide his back down the tree. Jack cupped his hands around Isaac’s ear and whispered, “Wolves!”

“Wolves?” The edge of Isaac’s lips twinged upward amusedly.

Jack shushed him, his little hands waving. “Papa told me not to talk about it,” he explained.

“Why’s that?”

“Because Uncle Arthur and Uncle Javier had to save him,” Jack responded, “and Papa doesn’t like that very much, I guess.”

Isaac giggled lightly, sounding much younger than even he would’ve thought, his smile wide. Jack tilted his head at him. “Do you think it’s funny?” 

Isaac closed his mouth and smothered the following laugh that threatened to rear itself up. “No,” he lied.

“Uncle Arthur thinks it’s funny.”

Isaac laughed at that, louder than he would’ve liked, and he watched as John flipped his head over to them. Jack gasped, offended that Isaac would give him away like that, and he ran past him, yelling joyously as his father chased after him, down to the water. Isaac watched silently as John scooped Jack up, a loud “Gotcha!” followed by high-pitched laughter.

It was a sickeningly sweet scene, but Isaac felt rather sad watching it. Something was still eating at him, aside from the hunger… he forgot about it quickly, and wondered absently if he was starving yet.

\--

There was yelling around the camp, and Isaac’s head hurt something fierce. It was as if somebody was banging a gong on the inside of his skull, and all he wanted in that moment was for the shouting to  _ stop _ . 

He shut his eyes tight and groaned, but even that only increased the revengeful pain in his temple, so he stopped and did his best to stay quiet. It didn’t work, to his dismay, and the pounding only worsened as he was roughly handled out of the ropes around his wrists for just a moment, and then they were back again, and he was practically dragged across the camp, his feet scrambling over themselves to stay up.

He was shoved past a tent flap and sat down on the floor, and the hands on his shoulders fell back. The tent was illuminated softly by a lantern set on a crate somewhere nearby, shining against the left side of his face, but he didn’t particularly care. 

He could slightly comprehend the hazy shadows of people milling about in front of him, but it hurt to keep his eyes open, so he closed them again. It felt so nice to rest his eyes, he could just…

Somebody was snapping their fingers in front of his face, and he blinked his eyes open again. “Isaac.” He tapped his cheek lightly, trying to snap him out of his daze. “You alright, boy?”

Isaac grunted in response, yanking his head backward, and immediately regretting it, hissing in pain. “Arthur?” he mumbled, and upon receiving confirmation, he explained, his voice taut, “My head hurts.”

There was a short conversation between Arthur and the others in the tent, one of them insisting that “He had been just fine earlier today!”, which Isaac had to agree with. He didn’t like this sudden change in his health, for lack of a better word.

After a moment, a canteen of sloshing water was pressed to his lips resolutely. Isaac hesitated, licking his dry lips, wondering against the better judgement of literally all of his survival instincts if he should refuse it. After all, at this point, it wasn’t really about what happened to him-- it was really all about whatever spiteful vengeance he was able to deal out on the lot of them, whoever this gang was… well, on most of them, at least. 

His thoughts stepped out beyond the current situation, and he was only dragged back to the present by a firm tap on his shoulder. “Just take the water,” Arthur urged, and Isaac put aside his pride, parting his lips. He drank down gulps of it, his mouth thanking him instantly, the cool liquid gliding seamlessly down his throat. He hadn’t realized just how thirsty he had been.

He sighed as the container was pulled back, his cheeks hot from his shame at a bruised ego, as if his will was weak for needing water to survive. He felt that it was stupid as he thought of it, but his face burned nonetheless. “Thanks.” The pounding in his head persisted, and he hoped that it would subside soon enough.

“Don’t mention it.”

Isaac finally ripped his gaze away from Arthur, looking around the tent. He was sure that there had been more people at some point, but now all he saw was Dutch, a piercing fire in his gaze, and another man adjacent to him, somebody Isaac thought he had heard be called something that started with an H. He was studying Isaac quizzically, his eyes scrutinizing, and the boy gulped anxiously, fidgeting. There wasn’t anything necessarily judgemental with the way the man looked at him, but it was definitely a prying curiosity, and he didn’t like the way his eyes seemed to drill holes straight through him.

Isaac set his lips firmly, unsurely turning back to Arthur. “What’s going on?” He asked, slowly. Arthur opened and closed his mouth, his jaw set closed and teeth grinding. There was an obvious tension in his shoulders, and he silently pulled an old book from his satchel. He stared at it vacantly for a moment, before looking back to Isaac.

“That picture you mentioned,” he ventured. “The one of your family. Do you have it with you?”

Isaac’s heartbeat stuttered, and he pulled back away from Arthur, his brow furrowed. “What?” He said accusingly, “You’re going to destroy it, or something? Is that it?” Ignoring the protest of his headache, he puffed up and a surge of angry passion went through him, his face heating again.

Arthur gawked at him for a second, but he swiftly recovered from his mild shock, his mouth morphing into a gracious smile. “No, of course not,” he replied, shaking his head. He paused, quirking his lips strangely. “I just need to ask, and I need you to tell me. Honest. It’s a good thing, I swear it.”

Isaac eyed him closely, but found that he couldn’t really detect anything other than earnest truth. He was sure that Arthur had done his fair share of acting, of course, but he decided to trust his gut on this. He flicked his gaze thoughtfully to the ground, and then back to Arthur. He bowed his head. “I have it.”

Arthur acknowledged his answer with a dip of his head, gazing back down at the old book in his hands, and he drew a thumb over the cover carefully. “Okay.” He flicked his head up and glanced behind him, at the two men watching on. “Okay,” he repeated. “Where is it?”

Isaac closed his eyes slowly, contemplating in a brief battle what he should say, but figured rather quickly that it didn’t particularly matter. He opened them again and curled his toes, pushing his feet into the ground. “My boot.” He tipped his head to the right just slightly, raising the toe of his right foot. The headache had let up some, but Isaac found that the pounding of his head was replaced by the strong beating of the blood in his ears.

“Your boot?” Arthur’s expression changed briefly, filled with amusement. He promptly and easily pulled the footwear off, flipping it over and tapping lightly on the soul of the shoe. A folded, well-worn piece of paper fluttered out and landed harmlessly in the dirt.

Isaac’s heart was in his throat as he watched Arthur pick up the paper. “Most people don’t check there,” he elaborated. “You didn’t.”

Arthur just nodded, preoccupied. With gentle fingers, he painstakingly unfolded the photo, and Isaac watched as a million different emotions flashed over Arthur’s features. Shock, excitement, horror, happiness, and, finally, sheer panic.

“Shit!” He frantically shoved the photo into the direction of the other two, and they both bent to look at it, and they went through the same range of emotions as he saw Arthur go through. 

“Wait, wait,” Isaac called, backtracking, “what’s going on?”

Dutch looked down at the photo in his hands, and Isaac squinted in annoyance, hoping he would hand it back to Arthur. The black-haired man and the other one stared at one another for just a second, before Dutch ordered, “Get the ropes off of him, Hosea.”

In a swift, smooth motion, Hosea cut the tight ropes from his wrists, and the air rushed onto the wounds that had been left, burning them, though Isaac was relieved either way. He rubbed softly at the burns, but his confusion was only heightened, and he considered running away right there and then, but his curiosity got the better of him. 

Dutch handed the photo back to Arthur, looking at Isaac tensely. He pat Arthur on the shoulder and briskly left the tent, Hosea following suit after sending Isaac a short reassuring gaze. Arthur was staring at him, studying him, glancing back down to the photo every now and then, a wistful look on his face.

Isaac was completely dumbstruck and had no idea what was going on. The only thing he was sure of was that the ropes were taken off of his wrists by his own captores, and he was… very hungry. 

Arthur finally set the photo aside, a slight tremor in his hands, his expression hard and concentrated. “I’m goin’ to show you somethin’, Isaac,” he told him, and Isaac slighted his head, leaning forward. He shuffled over to Arthur after he was given a strong wave of the hand, coaxing him closer. Arthur flipped open the old book, and Isaac looked intently over his shoulder.

He restlessly swiped his tongue over his lips, chapped and cracked as they were, and gulped as Arthur handed the journal to him, his hand covering the open page. Isaac turned to face him, his expression bewildered, his head swimming with interest. 

“I need you to take a breath, boy,” Arthur warned, staring at Isaac in all seriousness. Isaac nodded, and Arthur pulled his hand back, revealing another photo of Isaac and his mother, except that instead of a faceless body, there was Arthur Morgan standing beside them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hng dhhdkf... family...


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur watched silently, leaning an arm on one of his legs. He waited for Isaac’s reaction, biting his cheek. After a moment, he turned away and took his hat off of his head, running the rim through his hands nervously. He didn’t fiddle with his hat very often, and he found that he only did when he was placed in a situation he was wholly unsure of-- of what to do with his hands, of what to say, of where to look. 

“You-” Arthur turned his head back, waiting patiently for Isaac to continue. His eyes were wide, the reflection from the lantern glinting off of them glossily, and Arthur noticed that their eyes were very similar. If he wasn’t recognizable as his son from anything else, those would definitely give him away.

Isaac stretched his legs out and leaned back against the wooden support in the tent, the journal set open in his lap. He clenched his jaw, his brow furrowed, and slowly dropped his head back against the wood. 

Arthur sighed, twisting the hat in his hands before he set it down beside him and rested against the support, as well. “Me too, kid,” he smiled crookedly, a humorous irony in his voice. “Me too.”

Isaac blinked, his gaze frenzied, and he babbled incoherently. “I just-- what, it’s, I-” he bent forward, looking at his hands, shaking like the devil. He shoved his face into his hands, his breathing hard, and there was a thick lump in his throat. He curled his toes and tensed his shoulders, and his breathing quickly picked up, unsure on how to exactly deal with the new information he was just given. 

Arthur bowed forward, trying to get Isaac’s eyes on him again. “Hey, it’s alright,” he whispered reassuringly. He kindly put a diffident, consoling hand to just below the nape of Isaac’s neck, and suddenly the boy threw his arms around him, and he was flung to the ground with a surprised, swift shout.

He hung onto Arthur for dear life, his hands balling into fists and grabbing onto the back of Arthur’s shirt. Arthur slowly rose back up, blinking with a furrowed, worried brow, and tentatively returned the hug. While Arthur was worried that he may overstep a boundary of some sort-- show some sort of fatherly affection he wasn’t allowed to give, due to his absence-- Isaac showed no such hesitation. He clung to Arthur, his face pressed into his shoulder, and he released a shuddering breath. 

“Did you know?” Isaac asked abruptly, ripping away from the hug, an insatiable curiosity written all over his face. “Is that why you let me go?”

“I- no, keep it down, Isaac. You’re gonna get me into trouble,” Arthur joked, grinning adoringly. “I only did  _ that _ ‘cause I didn’t like the fact that you was bein’ kept here like that when you’re so young.”

“Oh.” Isaac licked his lips, and shook his head, drawing Arthur back into a hug. “It doesn’t matter,” he mused, and Arthur patted his back before pulling away himself. 

“Let’s get some food in you, alright?”

Isaac couldn’t argue with that.

\--

Arthur sloshed around the soup in his bowl with his spoon, idly running his tongue over his teeth and setting the food aside. The two were sitting beside one another on a dead log at the waterbank, the stars shining from miles away, the moon reflecting lazily off of the lake. A quiet chorus of crickets sang all around them, and a small breeze rustled through the camp, and the flickering fire behind them crackled satisfyingly.

Isaac grimaced and set his own empty bowl in front of him, patting the dust from his legs. “You know,” he started, resting his elbows on his legs and his chin in his palms, “I think I get what you all were saying about the stew… it’s pretty bland.”

Arthur looked at him skeptically, a smirk pulling at his lips. “You ate a mighty large bit of it to then declare it ‘pretty bland’.”

Isaac shrugged, twisting his neck to stretch out the muscles. “I was hungry.”

Arthur smiled and shook his head. “Yeah, I can tell. Best not move too much or else you’ll lose all of it,” he teased.

Isaac waved him away. “Don’t worry,” he patted his stomach, “I have an iron gut.”

“So iron that you can handle more than one bowl of Pearson’s cooking.”

“Only when I’m starving,” he joked, and Arthur breathed out a laugh, lightly tapping Isaac’s upper arm playfully. Isaac smiled and swiped his now overly long hair out of his eyes, frowning at how matty it felt.

“Say,” he mused, “are you and John really brothers…?” He didn’t mean for his words to trail like they did, but he earnestly wasn’t quite sure what to address Arthur as. The respectful part of him insisted on calling him ‘sir’, the friendly one encouraged him to call him ‘Arthur’, and the sentimental one-- the part of him that was at the forefront-- begged to call him ‘Pa’. Yet he wasn’t sure what the limit was to the father-son development, and he didn’t want to put the man on edge.

Arthur gazed thoughtfully over the lake, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. “By blood? No,” he finally settled on saying, “But we’re brothers. In every way that matters, I’d say.” 

Isaac nodded, fiddling with his fingers. He opened and closed his mouth like a beach-stranded fish, feeling stupid each time he closed it again to reconsider his choice of words. “I--” he sighed, and Arthur faced him, warily curious. Isaac licked his lips and cringed at the mild burn that was drawn from the action. His bottom lip had been busted up fairly bad a week ago ( _ had it really been just a week? _ , he pondered,  _ it feels like it’s been so much longer _ ) and while the healing was there, it wasn’t exactly helped by the criminal lack of hydration. He vowed to drink a lot of water, now that he could reasonably do so. 

“I was just thinking,” he paused, rubbing his hands together restlessly, “what… what has it been like for you? Since… well, since I last saw you, I guess.” He scratched at the back of his neck and dipped his head timidly and glanced at Arthur carefully. He saw that his father had his hands clasped tightly in front of him, staring up into the clear night sky, chewing on his cheek. 

After a quiet, tightly wound moment, Arthur sighed sadly. “It’s been tough, kid,” he said affectionately. He turned to meet Isaac’s eyes, and Isaac was reminded of all those years ago, the sun framing a hazy face at the waterbend. It seemed like a reenactment of sorts, with the fire serving as a stand in for that warm sun.

“It’s always been tough, of course,” Arthur added, “Things, they’re hard all over, for all of us. But…” he hissed out a breath through his teeth, sounding absolutely exhausted. “Losing your mother and you?” he frowned bitterly, his eyes dark. “That was a whole other demon, and let’s just say that I weren’t exactly prepared to fight it.”

Arthur paused and stared vacantly out across the expanse of the water, seemingly far away, before waving his hand dismissively. “I’m mostly interested in what you’ve done over all this time,” he told Isaac. “Six years is a long time, ‘specially at your age.”

“Yep,” Isaac popped the ‘p’ jestfully, “that’s nearly half of it. And guess what?” he asked rhetorically, and Arthur stared at him expectantly, his eyebrows raised, an amused grin on his face. Isaac paused for dramatic effect, his hands out animatedly. He finally answered his own question, “ _ Nothing  _ exciting happened.”

Arthur barked out a laugh. “In six years?” He prodded incredulously, “Just tell me about your home. Your childhood after you left the West.”

Isaac pinched his lips together, thinking. “I lived in Philadelphia. But I’m serious. All of my time there just felt…” he stopped and racked his brain busily, trying to pull the right word. “It felt empty.” He flipped his hands, palms up, gesturing to try to vaguely illustrate his point. “I was put through school and all, which I’m thankful for,” he added hastily, “but even that felt like a waste of time to some point.”

Arthur nodded along. “I understand you there. The city… well, it doesn’t exactly hold up against the far West.”

“Exactly.” Isaac scrunched his face. “There’s a University there too, and I was pushed to go for that by my Uncle.”

Arthur considered briefly asking him why he didn’t take that chance-- of a good life with good pay and a home among the rich folk to the East, but when he thought about living like that, a life of constant day-to-day mediocrity and forced diplomacy, he decided that he could perfectly understand why Isaac would be tempted to pursue him out here in the west.

Isaac tilted his head and said wistfully, “I think one of the only things I liked about the place was the fireflies in the Summer,” he said, smiling fondly. “They’d light up the place like little lanterns, and I’d collect them in a net and put them in a jar in my room. My Uncle didn’t like that much-- insisted that they’d ‘infest’ the place-- but I’d do it anyway.” 

Arthur smiled at that. “Fireflies… haven’t seen them in years. They’re quite a sight, though.” 

Isaac sighed, a restful grin on his face. “They were.” There was a soft silence, and Isaac pinched his lips thin. He thought back on all that he’d lived through in the past months-- about his Uncle’s death, his decision to begin his travels to the West, and all that led him here. Thinking about it felt more like he had been looking into the life of somebody else, like in one of those moving pictures. And he was glad that he did all he did that led him here, even if the way he was brought was… unconventional. Isaac swallowed and took a breath.

“I know about the O’driscolls,” he told Arthur, his thoughts drifting quickly from one topic to another, and his throat tightened in protest.

Arthur thought for a moment, cracking his knuckles. “Do you?” 

“Yes,” Isaac answered, instantly. He blinked, feeling ashamed, and looked back down at his hands, palms up. He gazed at the burns rubbed into the skin on his wrists, deep and glistening and red. “But…” he furrowed his brow, contorting his face comically to stop the emotion from showing.

Arthur slid his jaw and said, “You don’t have to say anything.”

“But I should.”

“How do you figure?” Arthur looked askance at him. “Your loyalty isn’t with my gang, Isaac.”

Isaac wasn’t sure how to respond, so he didn’t, and simply turned his attention back to the bugs dancing atop the water. A silence engulfed them once more. 

“It wasn’t with the O’driscolls, either,” Isaac answered, finally, and he gently ran his finger through the grooves in his wrist’s skin, the burns flaring up dully. 

“I know.” 

“You do?”

“‘Course,” he replied, and there wasn’t a lick of doubt in his voice. It was rather comforting, and Isaac could feel a tension seeping out from his shoulders, despite not even noticing it there at first. “You’re not telling us because of a loyalty to your friend,” Arthur continued, his voice sure of himself, and rightfully so. “Not because of a loyalty to the  _ O’driscolls _ .”

Isaac clenched his jaw and nodded vaguely. He opened his mouth uselessly, and once again felt stupid. “He didn’t deserve to die,” he mumbled quietly.

Arthur blinked and glanced at him, a kind look in his eyes. “What was his name?”

Isaac, surprised, snapped his head to the side and stared at Arthur, but his father only looked over the lake, waiting for an answer. Isaac sucked in his lips, sighing deeply, wearily. “Archie,” he said. “Archie Davis.”

Arthur nodded minutely, thinking of the boy in the cabin, his brown eyes feet apart from each other. Isaac could feel the melancholy pooling in his chest, and no matter how much he tried to ignore it, it felt as though it was digging its way up his throat. Clawing at the back of his eyes, ripping at his chest, and-

“We should get some sleep.”

Isaac, turning his head from the ground, back to his father, could only feel as though Arthur knew exactly what was happening. When he thought of it, Isaac could only be sure that Arthur had experienced this all many times over. He nodded, barely noticeable at first, before nodding quicker and standing up. “Alright.” His legs felt shaky, like a newborn fawn, and he sucked in a breath to steady the violent beating in his chest.

Arthur stood up as well and adjusted his hat habitually. He collected their abandoned bowls from the ground and Isaac followed him as Arthur set them beside the campfire, in a pile of other dishes. 

Arthur told Isaac to sleep on his cot, and Isaac wouldn’t have argued, even if he wanted to. He had collapsed into the worn cushions and thin blanket like it was heaven, and Arthur slept on the floor with nothing but a bedroll, but he didn’t mind. 

Isaac had glanced around the tent, the pinned photos catching his attention, but he said nothing. Arthur listened carefully as he heard his son’s breathing soften and even out, before closing his eyes and swiftly falling asleep, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter where they have a conversation :))) how absolutely riveting lmao
> 
> i really appreciate the kind comments and such. it's nice to know that people are enjoying reading this. as the tags suggest, there will probably be an open/vague ending, and i think we're coming up to the last few chapters now. this was rather short-lived but i've had some fun with it and i hope all of you have enjoyed it like i have 
> 
> :D


	9. Chapter 9

“Hey, Isaac.” 

Isaac twisted and stirred, pawing at the hand on his shoulder. 

“Wake up, bud.”

He blinked his eyes open hazily, grunting. His bones were stiff and cracked when he stretched out across the cot, kicking the thin blanket off from around his ankles, and he looked up at Arthur, squinting. “What?” he mumbled, and he could see Arthur pinch back a smile.

“Up,” Arthur insisted. “Come get some breakfast, and I’ll tell ya what’s goin’ on.” 

Isaac sat up and stretched his arms up and over his head and pointed his toes. He yawned silently, angling his body awkwardly like a cat, and he stood up to follow Arthur.

They sat at the dwindling campfire, the camp rising lazily around them, and Arthur poured them both a cup of coffee, burning hot from the fire. Isaac blew on his, the steam rising and dancing in the air gracefully. He took a small sip, ignoring the burn on his tongue, and sighed, wiping at the crust around his eyes.

Arthur took a large drink of his coffee and Isaac was wondering how he could do it without cooking the inside of his mouth. Arthur stared out over the camp, his arms resting calmly on his knees. “Dutch is gonna tell the rest of the camp ‘bout you once they’re all up,” he said, cracking his neck and moving his jaw to get rid of the tight sleep still in his muscles. “Not sure what exactly he’s gonna say, but I figured it’d be best you were awake for it.”

Isaac took another tentative sip at the bitter coffee, breathing in deeply. “Alright, Pa,” he replied, absentmindedly, and hadn’t realized what he said until he felt Arthur’s stare on him. “I-” he blinked surprisedly, suddenly feeling entirely awake, “Sorry, I just-”

Arthur smiled at him. He put a hand in Isaac’s hair and ruffled it, splaying the shaggy strands this way and that, and when he pulled his hand back Isaac’s bed head looked infinitely more severe, but neither of them minded that much. “It’s okay, Isaac,” he assured, and Isaac had to bite back the beaming grin that was threatening to show itself. He wasn’t very successful, though, so he wrapped his hands tightly around his tin cup and put it up to his lips.

Unfortunately for him, his eyes showed his happiness just as widely as his smile did.

\--

It was slipping into the later morning when the rest of camp had finally woken up. Isaac had kept to himself in Arthur’s tent, looking over the photos on the wall and whatever Arthur saw fit to show him in his journals and such. He was surprised by how good Arthur was at drawing, and though he’d never really gotten the hang of it, he wondered if he’d ever be able to reach that level of skill. Maybe Arthur would teach him if he asked him to.

He was given his fair share of strange looks as they waited for Dutch to make the announcement, but whoever stared too long was quickly shooed off from one of Arthur’s glares in reply. It was almost admirable, how easy it was to turn one of the other members away. Until that Micah guy came along, his sauntering gait and wide mustache seeming just a  _ bit  _ too cocky for Isaac’s liking, and he was hit with the same immediate dislike he felt when he first saw Dutch. The pompous sense of entitlement, of power that was ill-deserved and executed even worse. Except now Isaac wasn’t tied up, so it was all the more irritating.

Arthur tensed and studied Micah like a wild animal, his eyes sharp. Isaac swore that if he could, he would bear his teeth in warning.

“Dutch is askin’ for everybody to gather ‘round,” he told them, glancing suspiciously between the two of them. “Says it’s somethin’ ‘bout the kid.” He nodded his head toward Isaac, and something about it rubbed him the wrong way. It was a bit irrational, sure, but something in Isaac’s instincts screamed at him to prepare to fight, and the look that Micah gave him-- a grim, too-wide smile that didn’t reach his eyes, filled with superficial friendliness-- only heightened his unease. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, frightened, as Micah turned and walked away.

Isaac watched after him, and neither he nor Arthur moved a muscle until he was out of view around the bend of Dutch’s tent. He and Arthur were sitting side-by-side on Arthur’s cot, and Isaac glanced at Arthur through the corner of his eyes. He licked his lips. “I don’t think I like him,” Isaac said, offhanded, and Arthur’s lips twinged up into a prideful smirk.

“I’d say you got good judge of character, then.” Arthur stared after Micah’s shadow. “Just stay away from him. He’s nothin’ but trouble.” When Isaac nodded, Arthur stood from his spot beside him and motioned that he should follow suit. “Let’s go get this over with.” 

Dutch was standing on a crate, the members of camp gathered around in a crowd in front and around him. There were a few strays-- Kieran drifting back to brush one of the horses while he waited for Dutch to start talking, and a couple of the men sitting down at one of the tables, coffee or bottle in hand, but for the most part, all of them were there.

Dutch surveyed his surroundings with an impatient frown on his face, and he stopped when he caught sight of Arthur and Isaac rounding the corner. “Arthur!” he called, and the group turned to them both. Arthur dipped his hat to cover his face, and Isaac wished he could do the same as he felt his face flush red in embarrassment at all the eyes on him. Arthur put a sheltering hand on his shoulder and guided them both closer to Dutch, shuffling to protectively cover Isaac from the onslaught of attention. 

Isaac was thankful, but it didn’t last long, as, with horror, he was pulled up to join Dutch beside the crate. His heart beat furiously and he grit his teeth and clenched his fists to stop from covering his face. He was alright with crowds, but being in front of them, with the intent of having them be told such an intimate detail of his life? That was something else entirely. He hoped that they chalked up the red in his cheeks to a sunburn.

Arthur stood off to the side, his arms crossed and posture tense. Isaac glimpsed over to him for reassurance, and was pleasantly surprised to see a little smile on his face beneath the rim of his black hat. 

Isaac heard Dutch talking beside him, but wasn’t paying much attention. He drifted his gaze out across the group, picking out the faces that he recognized the most. Jack, up at the front, his mother’s hands on his shoulders, holding him in place. Bill, at the table, cup in hand. Kieran, at the back, his head slighted meekly to listen in as he worked. Isaac thought for a moment and felt bad for Kieran. For all he could see, Kieran was one of the only one of them who was constantly at work, and he wondered for a moment if he had really meant what he said about this place being better than it was with Colm O’driscolls.

He was suddenly pulled from his thoughts when Dutch clapped a large hand on his shoulder, and he said something that sent a ripple of gasps, shocked faces, and gossiping whispers through the group. Jack was confused, looking up at his mother for some sort of explanation, and Kieran’s lips were terse and he had snapped back to the horse he had been brushing, who whinnied quizzically from the sudden increase of nervous energy.

Bill’s face fell and he glanced over at Arthur fearfully, but Arthur wasn’t looking at anybody but Isaac, his chest puffed out and a wide, proud grin on his face. He was positively glowing with boasting happiness, and it was definitely contagious, because Isaac couldn’t help the smile that graced his features. 

Dutch said something else, before patting Isaac on the back, and Isaac hopped down off the crate. He could feel stares burning holes into the back of his head as he strode over to Arthur, and it sent waves of anxiety through him, but it was all calmed when Arthur ruffled his hair, just like he had this morning. Isaac bent forward just a bit and laughed freely, feeling completely  _ okay _ with this entire situation. 

Arthur retracted his hand and looked back over at the group, almost as a warning. There was a short tension in the air, and nobody was quite sure what to do, until John took the first approach, patting Isaac’s arm with a friendly, raspy fondness in his voice.

“Welcome to the family, kid.” 

Arthur smiled thankfully, and Isaac puffed up, fixing his posture. “Thanks,” he replied, full-heartedly, and then there were so many more people around him that he wasn’t rightly sure what to do with himself.

There were a lot of questions. Most of them seemed confused at Isaac’s mere existence, but Arthur waved them off and told them that he’d tell them about things later. There were a lot of suspicious eyes, but there were more kind smiles, and a lot more acceptance. And Isaac’s chest swelled adoringly, feeling so primarily happy that he didn’t even try to hide his giggly laughter. And for the first time in what was probably years, Isaac felt at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit short for a chapter but this story isn't exactly the longest haha. I think i'll finish it by the next chapter-- a nice 10 chapter story. again, it'll probably have an open ending, so if i feel the need to make a one shot of a father-son moment then i can make a series :)) thank you all for reading this, the comments and kudos make me very happy


	10. Chapter 10

Arthur was asked a lot of questions, a lot of them the same. But no matter how unapproachable he tried to make himself seem-- the way he fakely grimaced and sneered, setting his shoulders tense and tight like a wild animal-- the women of the camp easily broke his thin facade. 

Most of them had sat around the campfire that night, despite no actual celebration taking place. Arthur talked briefly about the time all those years ago when Isaac was born. About his mother and her kind eyes, and the little homestead Isaac and her lived in, hardly big enough for the both of them. He would set his jaw partway through his recountings of the pass, a sudden surge of emotion running along his spine determinedly, but he would mask it with nothing more than a tip of his hat and a hand scratching at his scruff.

Stories were thrown this way and that across the crackling sparks of the campfire, retellings with more flare and exaggerated aspects to grasp the crowd. Arthur hid his smirk when Hosea spoke of his encounter with the bear twice his size, and groaned audibly when the dreaded fish were brought up by John’s big mouth. He put in an effort to look annoyed, but he chuckled fondly along with the rest of the members at the memory, waving off their teasings with witty remarks of his own.

Isaac was absolutely enraptured by each story that was told, no matter how sprinkled with dramatics it was. Of course, for the other members of camp, the stories were old news; drifted into fond or grim memories, depending, but for Isaac, they were new as day. His eyes shone with boyish excitement and he leaned forward to the voice of whoever was talking, and Arthur smiled.

As the night furthered into darkness and the fire dwindled, Arthur found that he was struggling to keep his eyes open. He set a steadying hand on John’s shoulder, who was sitting beside him, and hoisted himself up, stretching. 

“Alright,” he announced, “I’m headin’ to bed.” There were sparse grunts of acknowledgment, but nothing more. Arthur pat Isaac on the shoulder. “You can handle yourself, right, kid?” He teased, and Isaac huffed indulgently in response.

“‘Course, Pa,” he answered, offhandedly, making no effort to wave his hand away. 

Arthur laughed good-naturedly. “Good man,” he murmured, and Isaac listened quietly as the thumping of his boots faded into the background. 

When Isaac looked up from the spinning flame of the fire, a soft melody from Javier’s guitar wafting through the air and most of the group that still remained captured in their own, different conversations, he was a bit startled to see John staring at him. There was a gaping distance between them from where Arthur had been sitting, and John’s scars glistened in the hazy firelight, the red and maimed skin raised only so slightly.

John was staring at him with a slight tilt in his head, his lips parted slightly, a weak suspicion dancing in his gaze. Isaac didn’t feel necessarily threatened or challenged, though.

John stared blankly, looking terse and absolutely void of thought. It was almost off-putting, in a way, how unreadable his expression was. 

Finally, he said, “Jack’s taken a real shine to you.”

Isaac was sitting off of the log, in the grass just beside it, and he rested his chin in the crook of his folded arms. He hummed thoughtfully, flicking his tongue across his lips. “He’s a good kid.”

John nodded and slid over, closer to Isaac, and Isaac flipped his gaze up at him briefly. “Well,” John continued, “I’m real glad you were picked up. I wasn’t so sure about going down another road like we had with Kieran,” he flicked his head in Kieran’s supposed general direction, “but I guess it all turned out.”

Isaac took a deep breath and let his head go slack into his arms. “Kieran doesn’t seem all bad.” 

“No, he ain’t,” John agreed, “does his work and all, and he don’t complain about it.” There was a short silence, and John furrowed his brows, only barely. “Anyway,” he returned back to the topic at hand, “all I’m saying is that it was nothing short of a miracle that you were the one who managed to be dragged back here. Of all the O’driscolls…” He shook his head in pure disbelief, wringing his hands together. “But I’m glad. Real glad,” he repeated.

“Me too,” Isaac affirmed. He brushed his thumb against his closed eyelid, feeling the starts of sleep weighing them down heavily. “Do you… uh, do you know where I’m supposed to sleep?”

John flicked his head back. “Over there. The girls got you a little setup.”

“Thanks.” Isaac stood and stretched, his bones creaking. “I’m gonna go head to sleep, then.”

“Alright.”

\--

Isaac wasn’t so sure that he fit in here.

The gang was much different than the O’driscolls had been-- he couldn’t pinpoint whether they were better or worse, really, just different. Smaller. But it was tense, as well, at certain points, and he found that he’d prefer to avoid some parts of the camp. Or just some of the people, really. 

He enjoyed it all, though. He carved out a little niche for himself among the rest of them. He knew how to hunt and went on trips with both Arthur and Charles, respectively, and made sure that he earned his keep beyond his connection with Arthur.

He talked with Arthur, often. About his own life before Isaac and during their time separated from one another. About the gang and what exactly led them to this point in the first place. 

Arthur told him that he doesn’t want Isaac to become a man like him. Didn’t want him to be caught up in the gang the same way he had, but Isaac wasn’t all sure what he was supposed to do with that. He had set out to the West to find his father, and now that he had, he didn’t have a goal, and, really, this was all he had left. He told this to his Pa, and Arthur had thought about it, and assured him that he understood the sentiment. 

Away from the rest of camp, though, he encouraged Isaac to do his best to stay out of the crime. He would be sure that he’d never be taken on a job. He would make sure that Isaac would never need to spend his days hiding, or with a bounty on his head, or with a fake name. 

Isaac didn’t argue with that. He promised that he’d stay out of the thieving and killing-- promised that he wouldn’t ever raise a gun to another man in anything other than self defense. Arthur smiled and ruffled his hair.

So, things were uncertain. He wasn’t sure where he was headed in the near future, but he had something akin to a family to guide him (or at the very least accompany him) so he could say, with absolute certainty, that he was alright with that.

**Author's Note:**

> ah, so that was all. nothing necessarily new or groundbreaking (and probably a bit boring in places, as well as a rushed kind of ending) but it's the first multi chapter fic i've ever finished so i'm proud nonetheless. and i enjoyed writing it. i hope you enjoyed reading it. have a good day and stay safe, all. :))
> 
> (i might want to write a one shot later on with arthur and isaac, so this may be added to a series if that ever happens)


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